


The Kingdom Come

by Lissadiane



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Gratuitous Smut, M/M, Sex, There's definitely porn in this, Unbeta'd because we die like men, You're Welcome, basically just sex, but with lube, is there plot in this?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-18
Updated: 2019-05-18
Packaged: 2020-03-07 05:24:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,878
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18866611
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lissadiane/pseuds/Lissadiane
Summary: Clint's finished up his job and has a few days to kill in a communal sanctuary for killers-for-hire. He's not sure what to do to pass the time -- until he sees a certain notorious assassin eyeing him up from across the room.





	The Kingdom Come

**Author's Note:**

> I was in a writing slump so I decided to write something fun without any angst.
> 
> I failed. There's some angst.
> 
> But mostly sex.
> 
> Thanks to [1000-Directions](https://1000-directions.tumblr.com/) and [Arson Baby](spacey-acey-artemiss.tumblr.com) for reassuring me that this didn't suck, even though they hadn't read it, so if it sucks... you know who to blame. And it's not me.
> 
> I'm kidding. It's me.
> 
> The title is from the U2 song Still Haven't Found What I'm Looking For. The alternate title was something about the tongue of angels. Bucky's tongue is good, but is it that good?
> 
> ALSO some quick warnings: There are under-negotiated kinks and minor, minor breathplay. So minor. I'm not sure it even counts.

Clint’s favourite part about establishments like this one is that no one’s gonna look twice at the splatter of blood on the collar of his white button-down.

The rest of the world could stand to be a little less judgy about those sorts of things, in his opinion, because they’re pretty commonplace in his line of work.

There are other pluses to this sort of place. No one asks questions they know he’s not gonna want to answer. The booze is cheap but they wouldn’t dare water it down. The clientele is discrete and, every now and again, he might even find someone interesting to pass the time with while waiting for extraction. And there were decent rooms available at reasonable rates.

And there’s also the fact that no one would dare start any shit for fear of being banned from the network of sanctuary places like this one for the rest of their (probably short) lives.

Sanctuaries like this one, for all that it was dark and smoky and filled with killers for hire, were pretty much the only place where Clint felt like he could let down his guard.

Natasha never used them, despite her long-standing membership to them, but that’s because she didn’t like to let her guard down anywhere.

He’s finished his part of their mission, taken out his target, and now he’s treating himself to a neat whiskey at the bar, still decked out in his ridiculous white collar shirt, though he’s tossed the jacket aside and undone the tie and top three buttons. The trousers feel ridiculously tight on his ass and show off his package a little too much, and he’d swear Natasha got them a size too small on purpose, if everyone else, including his target, hadn’t looked just as ridiculous.

He’s got the tie draped around his neck, doing very little to hide the blood splatter, but no one here gives a shit. He’s pretty sure the woman by the jukebox is stitching up a bullet wound in her thigh, though it’s hard to tell in the darkness. Clint’s pretty sure there’s a growing puddle of blood under her barstool, though.

He orders another drink just as the jukebox starts playing “Walking on Sunshine” and Clint goes to toss it back when he sees that, for all that there are nearly a dozen other patrons who probably warrant more attention, there is one person in the room who seems unable to look away.

Huh.

Clint swallows, licks his lips, and gives the guy a careful, thorough once over. Sure, he’s keeping to the shadowiest corner of the bar, and anyone else might have missed some of the nuances he was clearly trying to hide, but Clint has always had extraordinary vision.

He’s short, built, with a jawline sharp enough to cut glass. His hair is a mess, hanging over his eyes, and Clint can’t tell what colour they are, but he’s willing to bet they’re really fucking pretty, because fuck knows the rest of the guy is. He’s wearing a hoodie which does little to disguise how wide his shoulders and his chest are, and he’s also absentmindedly flipping a knife in one hand, and Clint’s man enough to admit that the dude’s competence (and finger dexterity) are definitely doing something for him.

The guy catches Clint looking and glares, his mouth tightening and his jaw flexing before he looks away pointedly, and Clint. Well.

He’s never had much of a sense of self preservation, and he’s not due to meet up with Natasha for another two days.

So he turns back to the bartender, smiles his prettiest smile, and asks for two drinks this time. Then he gets up, grabs them both, and saunters over to the scowly guy in the corner like he’s not taking his own life into his hands to do so.

The guy practically oozes menace, and there’s still the fact that he’s carefully keeping one arm hidden. Clint’s a curious guy -- he wants to know if it’s scars or some sort of mutation or some sort of injury. Maybe a curse. Maybe the guy turns everything he touches into gold.

Clint’s not sure if that’s a blessing or a curse but he grew up dirt fucking poor so he’s willing to see it as a blessing.

“Hey,” he says, after leaning a hip against the guy’s table and waiting for some sort of acknowledgement he doesn’t get.

The guy finally looks up at him, a lazy sort of dismissal written all over his face before he even speaks. “You lose something?” he says.

“Dunno,” Clint tells him, kicking out a chair and straddling it. He slides one of the glasses of whiskey across the table for the guy and then downs his own, swallowing and licking his lips. The guy watches it before looking away with a scowl and Clint grins, slow. “I think I found what I’m looking for.”

*

The door smashes against the wall when Clint shoves it open, which is unfortunate because this place charges for damages, but Clint doesn’t care overly much at this particular moment because the guy -- who refused to give his name -- is yanking Clint into the room by the tie that’s still draped around Clint’s neck and now wrapped around his fist. His metal fist.

He’s the motherfucking Winter Soldier and Natasha is going to kill Clint if she ever finds out about this.

Clint kicks the door shut and the Soldier yanks him close for a brutal kiss and the tie is twisted too tightly around his fist, cutting off Clint’s breath just a little -- just enough to give everything a hazy sort of edge of danger that makes Clint achingly hard and the Soldier hasn’t even gotten a hand down his pants yet.

Oh god, Clint’s pretty sure that if the Soldier shoves his metal hand down Clint’s exceedingly tight trousers, he’s gonna come, like, instantly. It’ll be so embarrassing. It’ll be so bad for his reputation.

He can’t find it in him to care.

The Soldier pins him back against the door to Clint’s room, kissing him with a hungry sort of desperation, and he’s not giving Clint enough time to breathe, especially not with the tie around his neck, and his vision is getting spotty, but Clint just pants as best he can into the Soldier’s mouth and clings at his shoulders and thinks, “This is a pretty good way to die.”

Eventually, the Soldier lets him breathe, if only because he has to let the tie fall loose to suck and bite at Clint’s throat.

Clint lets his best falls back and tangles his hand in the Soldier’s hair and holds onto his hip with the other and takes a moment to recover.

And then the Soldier is yanking Clint’s shirt out of his pants and buttons go scattering across the floor as he tugs it open and Natasha is gonna kill him twice.

He doesn’t care.

“What’s your name?” Clint asks, because it seems polite.

The Soldier growls against his shoulder and bites down hard enough that Clint yelps, and it sends a rush of blood to his dick and he almost comes right then and if Natasha’s gotta get his trousers dry cleaned because he came in them, Clint will never every live it down.

He starts fumbling to get his own damned trousers off, both out of fear and because they’re so tight and he’s so hard, it’s cutting off circulation.

He wrenches them open and shoves them down and he’s not wearing underwear because he’s not a goddamn masochist and they were so fucking tight, so the relief is instant -- he feels like he can finally take a deep breath.

And then the Soldier is running his metal thumb over the head of Clint’s dick and it’s wet already and the Soldier’s watching him, eyes dark and blown and lips red from Clint’s teeth and, jesus fuck, he looks so pretty with his cheeks flushed that way.

His metal fist wraps around Clint’s cock and squeezes just a little too hard and Clint cries out, arching off the door and pushing into his fist and he can feel the Soldier’s breath catch at that, like Clint’s reaction isn’t anything he’s experienced before, like he’s never seen it before and he wants more of it.

“Get on your knees for me,” the Soldier says, his voice sounding whiskey rough, with just the slightest edge of hesitation, like he’s not sure he’s in a position to be obeyed.

But Clint is so, so good at following orders, so he says, “Oh fuck, yes, please,” and drops to his knees.

He’s not sure what mission the Soldier was on that led him here, to this sanctuary in New Orleans, but he’s a whole lot less covered in blood than Clint is, which is nice. 

His jeans are almost as tight as Clint’s pants but he tugs them open, not even bothering to shove them down. The Soldier’s not wearing underwear either, and Clint feels a rush of affection that is altogether unwarranted given that they’ve spoke less than two dozen words to each other, but he can appreciate the fact that cutting down on laundry is one of this guy’s priorities.

He can also appreciate his cock, because it’s fucking pretty. Clint doesn’t have the highest standards, but he can honestly say that this is one of the prettiest dicks he’s ever been about to suck. It’s hard and uncut and he wraps a hand around it and stokes it, slow and careful, swallowing hard when he sees that the Soldier’s already wet, like he is.

It tastes even better than it looks and Clint moans in the back of his throat as he takes it as deeply as he can, licking along the underside and hollowing his cheeks.

Clint spent some time in the circus and he used that time wisely, learning all he could from the sword swallowers, and he’s never had much of a gag reflex, but now, as the Soldier twists Clint’s tie up in his fist again and cuts off some of his breathing again and tugs him closer, Clint wishes, so badly, that he could choke on the Soldier’s dick.

That’s probably not something polite to ask for, and he’s got his mouth full anyway, so.

Clint can feel the tie around his throat every time he swallows and it makes him even hungrier for it, and he can’t help whining a little every time the Soldier pushes into his throat.

When he hears the Soldier curse, he pulls off and looks up at him and licks the taste of precum off his lips and says, “You can come in my mouth if you want, or on my face.”

The Soldier looks down at him, blinking slow, and then touches Clint’s mouth carefully with his metal thumb. “I want you on the bed,” he says, rough.

Clint scrambles to obey. “Yes, sir,” he says, flippant, as he gets to his feet.

The Soldier jerks the tie around his neck and all his uncertainty is gone when he snarls, “ Don’t call me that.”

Clint moans and it sounds as broken and wrecked as he feels, and the Soldier just curses and shoves him towards the bed. Clint goes, the tie dragging against his throat, a whisper of silk, as it slips off, still wrapped around the Soldier’s fist.

Clint falls back onto the bed, landing on his back, legs a little spread. He’s still got his white button down on, though it’s slipped off his shoulders now and is open all down his chest, and his trousers are down around his thighs, his dick hard and leaking.

And the fucking Soldier just stands there, running the silk tie through his fingers and staring at Clint like he’s starving and doesn’t know where to start.

Clint starts to sit up and the Soldier growls again, pushing a hand against his chest. “I want you to stay still,” he says.

Clint licks his lips and says, “Why don’t you make me?” When it looks like the Soldier doesn’t quite get his meaning, Clint lays down on his back again and stretches, slow and catlike, until his wrists are crossed above his head. “I don’t mind being bound.”

“I’m a killer,” the Soldier says, blunt and rough. “You’ll let me bind you?”

Clint smirks, slow and sure. “Ain’t a knot you can tie that I can’t get out of, sweetheart,” he says.

The Soldier seems to take it as a challenge, his eyes narrowing as he slides onto the bed, graceful and dangerous. He straddles Clint, and Clint almost changes his mind because he wants to get his fucking hands on the Soldier’s gorgeous thighs that are right _there_ , but then the Soldier is leaning up and binding his wrists together in a tight knot. He threads the tie up through the headboard and jerks it tight and Clint has a goddamn thing for competency and those knots are a fucking thing of beauty.

He can still be out in a matter of seconds if he needs to be, but for now, they hold steady and he tugs against him, the illusion of being held captive making his breath catch.

The fact that he gets turned on by getting tied up has pissed off so many would-be kidnappers. It’s worth Natasha’s judgement if only to see the disgust on their faces when they realize their ropes and their threats are getting him hard.

“Now what are you going to do?” Clint asks, his voice breathy.

“Taste you,” the Soldier says.

Clint thought he knew how blowjobs went. He thought he knew what to expect when he sat down at the Soldier’s table, gave him a glass of whiskey, and asked him, “Come here often?” with a truly ridiculous leer. He thought they’d get each other off in a hurried, desperate sort of way, maybe order some room service, watch some netflix, and then have a quick fuck afterwards and then go their separate ways.

He did not expect the Soldier to choke him and then tie him up and then touch him carefully, almost reverently, with his hands and his mouth like he’s never touched another person before -- like touch isn’t something he understood but something he desperately wants to learn about. He didn’t expect the Soldier to kiss him, careful and measured, and then taste his throat, his shoulders, his biceps, his nipples, all the way down his frankly spectacular abs.

He didn’t expect him to linger at the line of his hips, to press bruises into the skin there with his teeth and then soothe the marks with his tongue. He didn’t expect the Soldier to spend so long tasting the fragile skin on the insides of his thighs.

He thought maybe, if he was lucky, he’d get a sloppy blowjob, and he was good with that. Instead, the Soldier takes his time, learning the feel and the weight and the taste of him with his tongue, until Clint’s eyes are stinging with frustrated tears and he’s arching up into his mouth and every time when he’s nearly, nearly there, the Soldier backs off, like he doesn’t want it to end too soon.

Clint’s arms are shaking, his thighs are shaking, his breathing is shaking, and every time he pulls off of Clint’s cock, the Soldier looks up at him through his lashes like he’s checking in, checking for a reaction.

And when the Soldier finally, finally lets him fucking come, Clint cries out and a few tears escape and it’s desperate and soft at the same time, and the Soldier swallows every bit of it and then licks his lips.

“I remember that,” he says, and his voice sounds broken.

“Fuck,” Clint pants, chest heaving, voice cracking. “Fuck, God, fuck.”

He doesn’t seem capable of any other words but the Soldier doesn’t seem to be looking for any.

He just hums softly and pulls Clint’s pants off, pushing his legs further apart, licking at his perineum and when his scruff scrapes against Clint there, he’s so oversensitized, he whines and isn’t sure if he wants to press closer or pull away.

And then the Soldier licks at him and presses his tongue slowly, carefully inside, and Clint realizes that this is torture. This is punishment for his terrible pick up lines and his worse personality.

“I remember this too,” the Soldier says, each word dragging his stubble along Clint’s thighs and he’s going to start begging any second, and he doesn’t even know what he’s begging for anymore.

He sucks in a ragged breath that sounds something like a sob, and then the Soldier is licking inside him again.

“You -- you’re gonna have to tell me a name,” Clint ways finally, breathy and desperate and twisting against the silk tie. “‘Cos if this keeps up, I’m gonna need something to scream.”

The Soldier lifts his head, considering Clint for a moment before hitching one of Clint’s legs up over his shoulders and saying, a little soft and a little uncertain, “James.”

“Heya, James,” Clint says, trying to catch his breath. “I’m Clint.”

“I know.” 

And Clint has questions, okay. He has fucking questions. Natasha would be so appalled if she ever found out that Clint didn’t ask any follow up questions.

But James’ tongue is inside him and there will be time for questions later.

So instead, he pants, “Lube! There’s, uh, lube and condoms in the bathroom. Probably.” Because Natasha would also kill him if she found out he was unsafe.

James blinks up at him like he’s considering it, and then his gaze wanders down Clint’s entire body, lingering on his abs, his hips, his ass. Whatever he sees helps him make up his mind, because he’s up and off the bed a moment later.

He comes back with lube and condoms and Clint opens his mouth for some sort of smartass remark, and then he realizes that James is slicking up the _metal_ hand and he suddenly can’t find any words at all.

He does manage to pull both knees up to make it easier for him, because he can honestly think of nothing he wants more than to feel himself stretched open around the Winter Soldier’s metal fingers.

“Don’t let me hurt you,” James says, dark, and Clint just nods wildly and swallows back a desperate sound as James pushes a finger inside him.

“More,” Clint says, because he’s strung up and desperate and he’s always liked it when it hurt a little, and being over-sensitized had him just on the right side of painful. “I can take more.”

James pushes two more fingers inside him and it’s almost too much, it burns a little, and Clint can’t help moaning and pushing into his fingers, taking him deeper.

James finally seems to run out of patience, thank fuck. He doesn’t take his time, and though the moments when he’s pulled away to put the condom on seem to last forever, it’s really no time at all before he’s got both of Clint’s legs up on his shoulders, both hands braced on Clint’s thighs holding him there, pushing inside him.

Clint had been half worried that James would take his time with this, that he’d be slow and careful and calculated and Clint would fall apart before it was done. He needn’t have worried though, because James fucked him with a desperate sort of intensity that barely left Clint time to catch his breath.

It was fast and brutal and hard and in all the best ways. Clint got off on competence, he got off on pain, he got off on being tied up and told what to do, and he got off on being fucked by someone who could probably kill him a dozen times over before Clint managed to get himself untied and out the door.

It’s hot.

He doesn’t have time to think it through too clearly, but he feverishly decides that this is possibly the hottest it’s ever been.

James’ metal hand is going to leave fucking bruises on his thighs and Clint is going to jerk off to them for the rest of his life.

James is breathing hard, panting against Clint’s throat and pounding inside him, hitting his prostate every time and Clint’s entire body is trembling and he’d be screaming if he had any voice left at all. He’s managed to twist his hands around in the tie so he can cling to it for leverage, and it’s the only thing keeping him grounded at all.

The headboard keeps slamming against the wall and Clint thinks, when he’s capable of thought at all, that it’s lucky he’s being fucked by the scariest bastard in this place, because otherwise, he might be worried about his neighbour taking offense to the noise and trying to retaliate.

“Fuck,” Clint pants, when it becomes too much. “Oh, fuck, please, please come inside me.”

When James comes, he doesn’t make a sound. He reaches out blindly for the headboard with one hand, holds on tightly, and Clint can feel it -- can feel his body tremble and all the breath rush out of his lungs, but he clenches his teeth and flexes his jaw and doesn’t so much as moan.

Clint thinks, hazy and sweaty and sore all over, as James slumps on top of him and breathes, that next time they do this -- next time they do this, Clint’s gonna tie James down and touch him til he screams.

He forgets that there isn’t going to be a next time.

It takes all of four seconds to slip James’ best knots, and James doesn’t even seem surprised when Clint’s hands smoothe his hair down, run down between his shoulders and back up again.

He’s still deep inside Clint and this is the part Clint likes best -- when his throat is sore inside and out, when his wrists are just a little raw, when he’s stretched open and aching, while bruises form all along his hips and his thighs.

“Y’should stay here with me,” he says, voice slurred and sleepy. James is still wearing his goddamn jeans. “Save money on rooms.”

James laughs, quiet and breathy and doesn’t turn him down outright, which is sweet of him.

They fall asleep like that, stuck together with cooling sweat, which isn’t the _most_ comfortable.

And Clint isn’t surprised at all when he wakes up and James is gone.

He’s a little surprised when he can’t find his tie, though.

*

Ten years later, when Steve brings Bucky home after spending three long years looking for him with Sam, Clint is extra surprised to see his tie, a little worst for wear, wrapped around his wrist.

“Oh,” Clint says, blinking slow, and Bucky just shifts his stance like he’s expecting to be attacked. “ _Oh_.”

Bucky looks at him and then looks away, and he looks just as pretty with his cheeks flushed like that.

“You lose something?” Clint asks, and Bucky ducks his head to hide a smile.

“Dunno,” Bucky says, soft and all Brooklyn. “Think I found what I’m lookin’ for.”

The End


End file.
